Christmas 1911
by Bardess of Avon
Summary: For some people, the Christmas of 1911 would be the last they would ever see. How did it pass for them? Have a look at the last Christmas for several characters.


A/N: So, first of all, I know what you're thinking (or what I imagine you might be thinking): Will this girl _ever_ write a freakin' chapter-fic? The answer to your question is _yes_. I am working on several right now, but I've learned the hard way that it is so much easier to post fics _after_ you finish them. I'm almost done with one, as a matter of fact. But now I'm just rambling about myself, and I hate it when people do that.

In an attempt to get myself in the Christmas spirit (something that's difficult to do when the temperature is in the 50s and 60s and your teachers have decided to squash you under a mountain of homework), I was thinking of different Christmas ficlets I could write and then _this_ popped into my head. This is a short piece featuring different _Titanic_ characters during the Christmas of 1911. It's not as fantabulous as I had originally hoped, but I'm still proud enough of it to post it.

A historical note: Thanks to the _absolutely amazing_ encyclopedia-titanica website, I found out that Floretta Guggenheim, wife of Benjamin Guggenheim, held a debutante ball for her daughter, Benita, on Christmas Eve of 1911. It took place in the Louis XVI room at the St. Regis hotel in New York City, and a list of guests can be found on the aforementioned website. I have no idea what they drank at the party, so I'm assuming champagne is permissible. I'm also assuming there was a balcony; it seems like a given, don't you think?

Another historical note: During this time, the Astors were still honeymooning, but I have not found out where they were during Christmas Eve. In any case, since he was such a rich man and their marriage was such a scandal and some newspapers reported about them during their honeymoon, I figured that it was more than likely that news of Madeleine's pregnancy (which would have been at about two months on Christmas Eve, unless I'm very much mistaken) had leaked out.

A very non-historical note: I would like to remind you all that Italian accents are _very freaking hard_ to write with_out_ sounding redolent of the Marx Brothers's phony accents. Believe me, I've tried every conceivable way to write Fabrizio's accent, but this is the best I can come up with. So please try not to snicker too much when you see it.

In any case, I hope you enjoy and feel kind enough to review! Merry Christmas!

Disclaimer: Absolutely nothing you see here is mine.

* * *

"Don't _slouch_, Rose!" Ruth DeWitt-Bukater remonstrated in a low, deadly voice, a merry smile still on her face as Benjamin Guggenheim told a joke and everyone laughed stuffily.

"Mother, I'm exhausted," Rose muttered, not even possessing the energy to pretend to be happy.

"Well, you can catch up on sleep _tomorrow_. Right now, I want you to _smile_. How _delightful_, Floretta! Truly, this is a _marvelous_ ball! Benita must be so pleased!" Ruth crowed, referring to the debutante in question. She elbowed Rose viciously in the stomach. Luckily, the corset cushioned the blow.

Rose shifted, clearing her throat. "Yes, it's wonderful, Mrs. Guggenheim. Excuse me, I need some fresh air." Rose ignored her mother's scorching glare and turned on her heel, her red velvet dress swirling behind her as she made her way quickly towards the balcony of the Louis XVI room at the St. Regis.

"The atmosphere is just…it's simply too much excitement for her to take in! Do excuse her," Ruth invented, pumping her fan nervously. "Well, ah…have you all heard that Madeleine Force--I mean, Madeleine _Astor_--is _already_ with child?"

A flurry of shocked gasps and utterances of, "No!" met Ruth's statement.

Rose pushed her way past the silent glass doors and rested her forearms on the balcony. It was freezing outside, but she would gladly take the ice and the snow over the stuffy old peahens and the boorish men and the twittering little debutante ninnies inside. This was most definitely _not_ how she wanted to spend her Christmas Eve, attending Benita Guggenheim's debutante ball. Christmas was supposed to be spent with the family, not pretending to enjoy merciless gossip and having stinky men grasp her with their sweaty hands while they danced. Rose would rather be _anywhere_ else right now; even her straight-laced grandparents would be preferable, for they, at least, sung carols and drank eggnog and honored other Christmas traditions.

Rose remembered the Christmases of the past, back when her father was alive and would never dream of leaving the house for Christmas Eve. They would always have Rose's aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents over, and they would always spend all Christmas Eve Day belting out Christmas carols. When it became too cold to hurl snowballs at each other anymore, they came inside and stamped away the cold. Hats, coats, gloves, scarves and boots were removed and were replaced with festive hair ornaments and glasses of eggnog as they crowded around the fire and pointed out their stockings and sang even more carols. Then the little ones would be packed off to bed so that visions of sugarplums could dance in their heads.

The next morning, everyone would hurry down the stairs in their robes; no one ever dressed before Christmas dinner. The children would dive into their presents while the adults waited until the general stampede had subsided before daring to fetch their own gifts. After a light breakfast, the children would play with their new toys until dinner was ready. They would have turkey and pudding and make toasts until the older uncles were a bit tipsy. Couples would kiss under the mistletoe and even Ruth would relax her usually prim demeanor to cuddle up with Samuel. After the New Years Eve celebrations, the relatives would depart and it would be considered a holiday well spent.

But that all changed when Samuel had died. With him had died the warmth and love to the DeWitt-Bukater household. Ruth had turned cold and stiff. The relatives were not invited, and those bold enough to ask if they could visit were coolly informed that Ruth and Rose had "other plans." Rose and the servants were snapped at by Ruth whenever they broke out into Christmas carols. The decorations remained in the attic, and Ruth took to traveling over the holidays, Rose ever in tow. This was the third Christmas since Samuel's death, and it was by far the least enjoyable.

Well, all right, so maybe Rose was being dramatic. Ruth had always said that she had a theatrical flair, albeit in an annoyed tone. After all, it _was_ a ball. Some of Rose's friends were attending, so it wasn't all bad. And Ruth _had_ hinted that her Christmas present was a trip abroad. Things weren't so bad, really…

"I thought I might find you here."

Except for that.

Rose forced a smile as Caledon Hockley, son of Nathan Hockley, the Pittsburgh steel tycoon, stalked towards her with two glasses of champagne. He smirked at her (he never smiled or even grinned; just smirked) and set down the glasses on the balcony railing. Rose accepted her glass and, after muttering a thank-you she did not feel, drank the biggest sip she could while still remaining ladylike. Although at this point, she would have loved to do something to ward off Cal. She was aware of his eyes on her full red lips as she drank the champagne; they seemed to be fixed there a lot lately. Cal had taken to escorting the DeWitt-Bukater women all over New York, and Rose had a feeling he was soon going to make his intentions as her beau clear.

"Are you enjoying the party?" he asked.

Rose knew that he wasn't really listening for her answer. She contemplated announcing that she was going to run around the snowy streets of New York stark naked and screaming "Deck the Halls;" after all, it wasn't as if he was paying attention. Cal was amazingly concerned with himself and only himself; Rose was just a pretty little trinket he liked to show off on his arm.

"It's lovely," Rose lied.

He nodded, staring at the building across the way. He finally cleared his throat. "Rose, as you well know, I have been, well, courting you for quite some time now. I hope I don't seem too forward."

"Not at all," Rose assured him, writing her name in the snow with her fingernail.

"Excellent. And, well…"

Rose tuned him out; she was examining the individual snow flake crystals on the stone balcony. Some of them fell into her champagne; she watched them dissolve with fascination.

"…and, you see, this is my grandmother's ring, God rest her soul. She made me promise her, on her deathbed, that I would give it only to a very willing woman whom I loved very, very much."

That was a lie; Cal's paternal grandmother had died before he was born and his maternal grandmother wasn't even dead yet. Rose resisted the urge to snort. She felt her hand being pulled and turned to see Cal getting down on one knee. _Oh, damn it, no…_

"Will you, Rose DeWitt-Bukater, do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Rose swallowed the hard lump in her throat; she did not want to honor Cal in any way, let alone "honor" him by becoming his prize show horse. She didn't feel cold like she ought to; she felt hot. Far, far too hot for December. Her corset was constricting her every movement; she couldn't breathe. And so she did the only thing she knew to do to escape: She fainted into Cal's arms.

* * *

"Merry Christmas!" Jack proclaimed loudly, dropping a turkey, fresh from the butcher's, in front of Fabrizio.

"_Che cazzo e?!"_ Fabrizio demanded, scooting back a few inches from the corpse.

"Whaddya expect, it's a turkey, dummy," Jack returned cheerily, dropping onto the ground and whistling "Auld Lang Syne."

"What is this 'dummy?'" Fabrizio asked, genuinely concerned.

"It's…it means a, a not smart person," Jack explained. "Hey, let's get a fire goin', huh?"

"Where did you a-get a turkey, Jack?" Fabrizio asked, warming up to the concept.

"There are some careless drivers around here," Jack answered, shrugging and trying to hide a grin. "And I took advantage of the moment."

"_Pazzo figlio di puttana_!" Fabrizio exclaimed happily, helping Jack get the fire started to cook their turkey. "We will have a Christmas dinner at a-last!"

"And who knows? We may find pudding," Jack laughed. He whistled "Auld Lang Syne" again, his whistles echoing under the dark bridge he and Fabrizio were currently residing under.

"What is that a-song?" Fabrizio asked. "I have a-never heard it before."

"It's an old English song, I think," Jack replied slowly; where _did_ that song come from? "It's something about…about old acquaintances and not forgetting and…buying a drink, I think. The words never make sense to me."

"It is a Christmas song, no?" Fabrizio asked.

Jack shook his head. "Nah…well, I mean, I guess you _could_ sing it for Christmas, but it's more of a New Year's Eve song."

"Then why you sing it a-now?" Fabrizio wanted to know.

Jack paused. "I…I really don't know, Fabri. It just…seems to fit right now."

Fabrizio was quiet as he contemplated this. Then he said, "Will you a-teach me?"

A few hours later found Jack and Fabrizio sitting by a cheery fire, clinking the beers they had bought for each other and belting out:

"_Should old acquaintance be forgot,_

_And never brought to mind?_

_Should old acquaintance be forgot,_

_And old times since?_

_For auld lang syne, my dear,_

_For auld lang syne,_

_We'll take a cup of kindness yet,_

_For auld lang syne!"_

* * *

Tommy Ryan was not a sentimental man by any means. The Christmas season meant little to him. It had once been a joyous occasion when he was a child, but he was a man of twenty-two and no longer a child. Christmas meant putting up with his mother and sisters and even the younger boys bursting into spontaneous carols. It meant shoveling snow and chipping ice and helping to decorate the house with stupid ornaments. It meant that none of his friends or brothers wanted to go to the pub, because they would rather be with their _families_. It meant getting a holiday and therefore not getting paid. And most importantly, it meant having to buy presents for the family he already sacrificed enough for.

Tommy had a philosophy about buying presents: It doesn't matter what they _want_, just get them what they _need_. And nothing too expensive, obviously; he needed his money more than his siblings did. He was the sour one of the family whom nobody expected much from and he never exceeded these low expectations. Sometimes he would get some useful things, like working clothes or cigarettes, but more often than not, he received useless trinkets that were sure to end up under his bed or behind a cabinet or some such place. Christmas was, to Tommy a foolish season meant for foolish people.

He understood that Christ's birth was something to celebrate, of course; although he hated attending Mass, he was very devoted to his Lord and Savior. He just didn't want to worship with all the people who acted so pious on Sundays but were still drunkards and men who beat their wives and women who gossiped about everyone and children who had more interest in picking their nose than their rosary beads. Tommy lit up a cigarette and laid down on the old bench on the front porch, the noises of laughing, chattering family members wafting outside.

He supposed he was a very cynical man, but really, what was there to be so happy about in this world? Crops never grew when you wanted them to and animals never behaved and people always let you down and turned on you. He hated those people who were thankful for everything and nothing; they annoyed the living daylights out of him. It was worse on Christmas; no, it was _at_ its worst. Elsie was visiting Ireland for the first time since she had gone to live with her husband Jim in the States, and everyone was thrilled. Except for Tommy, of course; yes, Elsie was back, but she had only left a few months ago, and she wasn't all _that_ special.

"And what, may I ask, are yeh doin' out here?"

Tommy looked up to see Elsie standing before him, a shawl around her shoulders and her breath forming small clouds in the air.

"Enjoyin' Christmas in my own way," he said shortly, taking another puff of his cigarette.

Elsie pushed his feet off of the bench and sat down in that place. She rubbed her shoulders, gazing absentmindedly at the fields. "I hear farm's doin' well."

Tommy shrugged. "It could be better."

Elsie rolled her eyes but chose to ignore his remark. "Have yeh heard from Sammy lately?"

"Aye; he's on a Cunard steamer, last I heard."

Silence descended upon them again before Elsie cleared her throat and spoke up. "Y'know, Tommy, Jim told me that the cab company's lookin' fer new drivers."

"Mm."

Elsie rolled her eyes again. "Yer curiosity is astoundin'. In any case, I've been talkin' to Pap, and he says that soon as they can bring in a new hand, yeh can come live with us and work with Jim. If yeh want, that is."

Tommy sat up slowly, contemplating this. America had always been the place he wanted to go; _everyone_ wanted to go there. Except for Ronnie, of course, who swore he would never leave Ireland. America was a land of opportunity. There were no potato famines or rough constables who still thought they owned Ireland; there were infant cities already bustling with activity that were welcoming everyone with open arms. The Ryans had always had a rule about leaving home: If they chose to do so, it would be by their own means, not the means of their family. Tommy had never worked outside of his family's meager farm; he had always worked in the fields there. America had always been an unattainable dream, something he wanted but could never get to; almost like trying to find the end of a rainbow.

"And who'll pay fer it?" he asked.

"Mam and Pap can see ter that; you'll be livin' with us until yeh make enough ter live on yer own or take a wife," Elsie replied, rubbing her shivering arms again.

Tommy contemplated this. "America."

"America," Elsie confirmed. "I know yeh want ter, Tommy, and yeh'd be a fool ter pass this up. Think on it." She rose to leave but paused in the doorway. "Oh, and Happy Christmas."

"Yeah…" Tommy muttered after her, his mind alive with possibilities. "Happy Christmas."

* * *

Bert and Emmy Cartmell had raised their daughter to understand some of the less pleasant facts of life; because there was no use in getting her hopes up, Cora was well aware that her family was poor and just barely scraped by. She understood that she couldn't receive as many presents on birthdays and Christmases as the other children because they needed the money to eat, and anything the family bought was _only_ what they needed. Because of this, she also understood that there was no such person as Father Christmas, but she was not to spoil it for the other children in the neighborhood. Cora knew that her presents came from her parents, not a merry old saint who magically produced presents for good children and coal for naughty children. She felt sorry for her friends, sometimes, when they talked excitedly about what they hoped Father Christmas would bring them.

However, this did not discourage her from joining Hattie and Mabel when they walked by the toy store everyday to look at all of the toys and point out their favorites. Pressing their faces against the glass in order to see better was a favorite pastime of theirs. Cora thought all the toys were very pretty and all, but her eyes always strayed to one particular doll. She was nothing special; it had plain hair and plain clothes and a plain hat, and it wasn't even porcelain, but Cora liked it. She supposed that she liked it so well because none of the other girls wanted it. She had dared to point it out once and was met with derision from Hattie and Mabel, both of whom thought the doll much too boring and not as pretty as _that_ one with the black curls or _that_ one with the pink silk dress. So Cora admired it quietly.

The shopkeeper was used to little children pressing their faces against the window and fogging up the glass, but he did not take to it kindly. If he caught children smudging his window and making his wares less visible to potential customers, he approached the window until they scrammed. Sometimes passerby would laugh at the sight of children fleeing from a man whose only weapon was his broomstick.

One day very close to Christmas, the three girls were staring in the window again (the display in the window was decorated for Christmas, and they loved looking at the nutcrackers and gleaming toy trains) when the shopkeeper espied them and swiftly made his way towards the table covered in cotton that was supposed to be snow. The girls squeaked and took off, their little shoes pattering against the sidewalk and their little curls bouncing on their shoulders. Cora ran right-smack into an older gentleman with a great round belly and a kindly face behind a bushy white beard. His smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling.

"Looking at the dolly, were you?" he asked kindly.

Cora nodded, stammering, "Y-yes, s-sir."

"And no wonder; it's very pretty," he observed.

"Yes, guv'nor."

He chuckled, his belly shaking. "Go on and play, little one."

Cora obliged, dashing towards her friends and catching their hands. They slowed to a walk and discussed now badly they wanted it to snow.

On Christmas Eve, Cora sang the usual Christmas carols with her parents at church and reflected upon the birth of Jesus as they made their way home in the snow that Cora had so desperately wanted. She thought it was very generous of God to give the gift of his son to all of mankind, but she thought it a great shame that some people simply didn't appreciate the gift. The Cartmells lived in a neighborhood that wasn't known for its religious devotion, and she often heard God talked about with scorn.

This got her to thinking about Christmas in general, which led her to think about Father Christmas. She used to feel sorry for her friends who thought that he was real, but tonight, she kind-of-sort-of wished that she _did_ believe in Father Christmas. It would be nice, she decided, to truly believe that a magical saint left children presents on Christmas. She knew just what she would want if it were true: That little dolly in the toy store. But Father Christmas was not real and the doll was not something Cora needed, no matter how much she wanted it. And so she went to bed, hoping she got a new dress tomorrow, for she was starting to grow out of some of the old ones.

The Cartmells gathered in the kitchen the next morning, pulling out chairs and slowly unwrapping presents; they wanted to savor what little bit they had. Cora thought that it would be nice if they had a parlor to put the tree in and open presents in, but the kitchen would do. Before long, the packages had been opened and everyone had thanked the giver of their gift for their present and Cora began to wonder if anyone else would be playing in the snow on Christmas morning. Bert went out to get the milk (which, he grumbled, was no doubt frozen), and they heard him exclaim.

"What is it, dear?" Emmy asked, starting to get up.

Bert entered without the milk; instead, he held a little doll in his hand. The dolly from the store. Cora gasped.

"This was on the front step," he said incredulously.

"Why?" Emmy asked.

He shook his head. "I don't know. But say, there's a note!"

"Well, go on and read it," Emmy urged, getting up to peer over her husband's shoulder. Cora got up too; the three Cartmells stared down at the slip of paper with loopy writing. It read, quite simply:

_Merry Christmas, Cora!_

"Who's it from?" Cora asked as soon as she had finished.

"That's what I'd like to know," Bert muttered. "Of all the things…well, I'll be! It looks like Father Christmas has paid us a visit after all!"

"Now, Bert," Emmy said in a wheedling tone; she did not find the fact that a doll left for Cora by an anonymous person was something to be calm about.

"Oh, now, love, it _is_ Christmas, after all," Bert placated, handing the doll to Cora. "What d'you want me to do, notify Scotland Yard?" He chuckled at his joke.

Cora slipped up into her room, holding the doll as carefully as if she were the Holy Grail. She set it down on the bed and gazed at it lovingly. It was even more beautiful up close than it was from afar in a store window. She had long ago named the doll Mary when she stared at her in the store, and she had no intention of changing the name now. It didn't matter who had given it to her; Father Christmas or not, she had her doll, and that was miracle enough.


End file.
